Come, Draco
by Lady Enigmatic
Summary: After the battle, there is a brief moment when Draco Malfoy is faced with a decision. Will he rejoin the Dark Lord, and the side that he was born into? Or, does he dare to choose the unthinkable–to stay? A look into the Slytherin's mind. One-shot.


**This is a tad OOC, but only just. It had to be written. Draco made me. Seriously, he sent me three Howlers in a row, and after I didn't respond (My owl is SLOW, okay? Don't judge.), he Apparated into my room and pointed his wand right in my face, threatening to turn me into something unnatural unless I wrote this NOW. **

**So here it is. Happy Summer. **

_Come, Draco_

The Slytherin steps outside the castle, where stone knights had made their last stand. Rubble, dirt, and dust dim the early morning sky. The sun has been blocked out, and the world feels cold. Barely an hour has passed since witches and wizards dueled in a terrible battle. Lives were snuffed out like candles by curses unforgivable. Blood covers the ground. Black washes the walls.

No one notices as Draco Malfoy slips amongst the defeated crowd gathered at the castle's entrance. Everyone's focus is on the slowly advancing figures before them. He watches in silence, along with the rest. There's that ugly brute, Hagrid, crying pathetically over someone he's carrying. Tears stream unashamedly down the half-giant's face.

A murmur runs through the crowd as the body is recognized—it's _Harry Potter._

There is hardly a sound among the gathered wizards and witches. A few wail, others moan, but the loudest sound of all is their silence. All continue to stare in shock, unable to believe that their hero has left them.

The stillness that follows seems to last an eternity. Eventually, the moment passes, and the Death Eaters halt their gloating to turn their eyes to Draco. He can feel their stares, hear their unsaid whispers—he knows what they expect of him.

The Dark Lord extends a thin hand to beckon him to their side, calling back his own.

Draco hesitates. He shouldn't be surprised that Harry Potter is dead. After all, as a loyal servant of the Dark Lord, he should have had faith that he would win in the end, and that his enemy would die in the end. Yet, a part of him had wished that somehow Harry would have been able to—

No. He cannot think like that! All feeling save hatred must be kept suppressed in regards to _them_—all those muggle-lovers, mudbloods, and halfbloods. This is the path he chose, and this is the choice he must make. But despite this, he can't help but feel a vague, yet definite sense of despair come over him with the knowledge that Potter is dead.

As he looks at the body of the Chosen One, he feels no victory, no happiness. He could remember the times when Potter would be favored by the teachers, or get special privileges just because he had survived an unforgivable curse when he was a bloody baby. The times when he would feel the undeniable pang of jealousy from the constant attention the Gryffindor was receiving—though he would never admit that to anyone, not even himself. And the times when he wished so desperately that Harry Potter had never survived that spell, or would just die already and step out of his life completely. Because how could he ever rise to the top if all anyone cared about was _Potter this_ and _Potter that_?

And now, after everything that had passed, after all the fights over Quidditch and scrambling for attention, The Boy Who Lived was dead. The only one who had survived the Dark Lord against impossible odds, who had risked everything for the greater good, was gone. That figure, that hero had vanished—and hope along with him.

The Slytherin can see it their eyes. Some are glazed over with disbelief, others paralyzed with shock. But overall, a shadow of endless hopelessness has crossed their faces. Still, some eyes held a fire that could not be put out. Neville Longbottom, he notices, seems particularly irate.

How _amusing_, Draco would have thought a year ago. In fact, he may of called out to his friends how dumb the boy looked. _Oh, watch out! Looks like Longbottom's angry. He's probably about to do something incredibly stupid_. Or saunter over to him and smirk with a cruel smile. _Don't look now, but I think Longbottom might be trying to do something brave. _

Those were falsely confident words that he would have said a year ago. But things are different now.

The battle is over. Why does that not seem like cause for celebration?

His parents frantically beckon him with their hands, the fear palpable in their eyes. They only want no harm to come to him because of their own past mistakes. He is taking too long, he realizes; people are beginning to look.

The ginger and the mudblood are staring at him, their watching eyes cold and unfeeling. They are waiting for him to leave, expecting him to rejoin the Death Eaters. After all, he was one—a betrayer, a liar, and a branded servant.

For a moment, he catches the Weasley's eyes, which smolder with disbelief. He can almost hear his voice, muttering lowly. _Harry saved your life. _Well, Draco didn't owe the dead anything—much less _them. _And yet, he hadn't been able to explain why he hadn't identified Potter at first, when that werewolf had brought him to their manor. Or why Potter had risked his own life in order to save his, only a while earlier in the Room of Requirement.

Maybe it was because that, although Draco would die before admitting it aloud, he had given him a reason to doubt, and to hope. That maybe their wouldn't have to be so much cruelty, so much death. That maybe there _was_ a different way. That maybe, everything he had ever known and thought to be true—dare he even think it?—was a lie. That maybe, it wasn't the world that was wrong, it was him.

All this time, it was him.

The blonde-haired boy looks to his parents, who are urging him to come quickly. They were so concerned for him, his mother and father were. That's all they ever cared about—themselves, honor, blood. All he had ever cared about. The dark, hooded eyes of his Aunt Bellatrix are boring into him. In his head, he can hear her nasty whisper. _Do as you're told, Draco. _

He knows what he is supposed to do, but was it what he _should_ do?

What was he saying? He can't think like that; he can't keep prolonging this. It is showing his weakness—and a Malfoy is not weak. But is it really weakness, he wonders, to show emotion? To pause and wonder if you are doing the right thing? To doubt something, even for an instant?

For an instant, he envisions himself defying all he'd been taught, all he had lived and lied for. Going on to fight against what he had been marked with. He sees himself resisting—being _brave_. Rebels are calling out his name, telling him to join them. This is his chance. It would be hard, and dangerous—but it would feel right. For the first time, he could make a decision on his own, not be dictated what he must do. He could be free. He could...

_Stay._

The thought flashes into his mind, and it's only because of shock that he doesn't discard it right away. He ignores it at first, starting to take a step towards his parents. But something stops him.

He doesn't want to go.

This realization weighs heavily on him, and his former idea grows larger and larger, until it is his only thought. All regrets, fears, and failures fade into black. As if moved by an invisible force, he takes a subconscious step backwards.

He imagines shock, even disgust flashing across the Death Eaters faces, and he can't help but wonder if this—not repairing the Vanishing Cabinet, not bearing the Dark Mark—was going to be the most brave thing he had done. Certainly it was the most stupid, but at this moment he doesn't care. In this moment, he is finally going to make a decision of his own, not one based off of Voldemort, his parents, or anyone else. By standing his ground, he will cast off his chains that held him captive in already established ways.

_Come, Draco._

The words are hissed into the silence. It is barley louder than a whisper, but he hears every syllable. At once, all glimpses into a future untold dissolve. And with that one horrid command, his courage shatters.

He knows, as he walks over to his doting parents to rejoin the other Death Eaters, who murmur their approval, that this is what he was going to choose all along. With this act, he seals his fate—his destiny. Looking again upon the angry and grim faces, it doesn't feel like destiny, more like doom. The Slytherin glances at the body of Harry Potter again, and feels numb. The side he leaves cannot have hope now. Their hero is dead. This would truly be the end for them.

As he crosses the line between the light and the dark, he knows that there will be no return. The opportunity to change has been missed, the chance to amend untaken.

But then again, he never really had a choice.

**Review? Anyone? I know you Draco-lovers are out there somewhere. ;) **

**Don't make him turn YOU into something unnatural! **


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